


Something To Leave Behind

by unsettled



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: M/M, music meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-29
Updated: 2010-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music Meme for Hatter/Knave</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something To Leave Behind

1\. The Ballad of the Yarmouth Castle, Gordon Lightfoot

He's dying, and he doesn't even know it.

Stayne can see it, can see the flames consuming Tarrant, blistering away his skin, and how well it burns, primed with poison. Tarrant burns, is becoming nothing more than a pale pillar of incandescence, and he doesn't seem to notice. He laughs, he dances, he walks and talks and breathes as though nothing is amiss, and Stayne is just waiting for him to collapse into ashes, waiting, with nothing he can do. He listens to Tarrant laugh, catches the frantic edge behind the hilarity, catches the unvoiced scream, _let someone notice, please, let someone notice_. He notices; but it means nothing.  
At the end, even Tarrant cannot keep laughing. He's weeping, crying like a child as he slips away, gone with the first light of morning.

*

2\. Superman – Five for Fighting

"No," he says. "That's not what I meant. I'm not crazy, you know."

 _Yes, you are_ , is there, stinging the tip of his tongue, waiting to escape if he opens his mouth. He says nothing.

"What do you want," Tarrant says, from far too close. "Even you have dreams. Even you have the right to dream."

"They're not dreams," he whispers. "They're nightmares."

Tarrant watches him with slitted eyes, smiles – no, smirks. "That's ok. I like nightmares."

And this is why he loves him, still; because they fit the size of each other's nightmares so well. They don't have to be on their best behavior with each other; already knowing that the better parts are best left to those who need them

*

3\. Traveling Band, Credence Clearwater Revival - Band AU

"Tarrant? Tarrant, I need to get ready too. You've got till the count of three…"

Tarrant opens the door on three, towels wrapped around his hips and neck, and Ilosovic isn't paying any attention to that, because Tarrant's _hair_ …

He doesn't even know what to say.

"Um," says Tarrant. "It's brighter than it looked on the box." Yes, Ilosovic thinks. It would have to be. No one in their right mind would buy _neon orange_ hair dye. Tarrant looks rather miserable, and he's still hogging the bathroom, and they've got a show in two hours. Ilosovic sighs, runs a hand through his own dark, quiet, normal, hair.

"It's fine," he says. "The girls will love it." _And some of the guys too._ Tarrant brightens.

*

4\. Stab My Back, All American Rejects

He turns his back, and it's an invitation, one he recognizes all too well. It would be so easy to accept, to plant blade or teeth or sharpened words in that vulnerable skin; but he doesn't like to be the one to make Tarrant bleed. It's better when he's the one dripping red, when he's the one taking the brunt of madness and punishment and all of Tarrant's mad, desperate attempts to keep him here. Not that it works, that it ever works. He has to go back, hasn't a choice, and Tarrant hates it. His words are vicious, proof that Ilosovic has wounded him without even meaning to.

"She hasn't done anything for you."

He thinks, but does not say, neither have you.

*

5\. 100 Pipers, Traditional

He wonders where Tarrant got that ridiculous blade; its nothing like his usual weapon, too long and too clumsy and too brutal. Tarrant's never relied on brute strength for anything; his strength lies in speed, in those lightening quick movements that leave you fighting his shadow more than the man himself. In distraction, in fighting not even a little bit fair, sand in the face, strike from behind, strike while you're down, and you always have to keep your guard up, fighting with him. Tarrant fights to win; more than that, he fights to outmatch, to humiliate, to mark the loser with lines of blood and make him look the fool.

*

6\. Dusk and Summer, Dashboard Confessional

It was just another day, just another day that started well, waking tangled in sheets and sunlight and long legs and lurid hair, just another day that ended well, tumbled back in the same bed, the hours between spotted with all those little moments of quiet existence that were everything he could have wanted; touches that were reminders, _I'm here_ ; looks that caught on eyelashes, on collarbones, on wrists; the kind of silence that says more than words, warm as touch, shared between two people as close as they were.

If he'd known, he would have held on so much tighter. He would have never let go.

*

7\. One Song Glory, Jonathon Larson

Tarrant catches his arm as he turns to leave, to lock the cell door again, leave him to contemplation in the hours before his beheading. Catches him, and holds him, loosely; he could step away, wouldn't even have to twist to get away, but he doesn't. There is something in Tarrant's eyes, something in the way his hand trembles on Ilosovic's arm, something in the low rasp of his voice, "You never should have left. You never should have come at all," that tells him a little too much, more than he wanted to know. Tells him that there might have been, once, long ago, something. Something he could have wanted, then. Something he can't have, now. Something redeeming.

What a waste.

*

8\. A Hard Day's Night, Beatles

Tarrant isn't awake when he finally makes it to their bed. God, he's tired. He's exhausted. He'll be glad when things settle. He slides into bed, and Tarrant stirs against him. 'Staynsie?"

"Shush," he breathes. "Go back to sleep."

Instead, Tarrant slides closer, covers Ilosovic's mouth with his own, tasting sharp and utterly intoxicating. He sighs into that mouth. "Tarrant, I'm tired, I'm too tired." Tarrant merely sets his teeth against Ilosovic's bottom lip, teases out a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan, and maybe he isn't quite as tired as he thought.

*

9\. The Bells of Rhymney, The Byrds

Tarrant gives him something slightly bitter, something not quite comfortable; it's not love, he thinks, but it's close. He's afraid to ask what exactly he wants in return, lives in hope that his feeble best is enough, is what's wanted, but he's never sure.

Tarrant's never given him anything to hold tight to, never given him something definably real to measure other offers against; never given him a reason to stay other than convenience, other than his own hopeless infatuation. That's not enough; it will never be enough, and he doesn't have to look too hard to find reason to be disgusted with himself.

The red queen wants something from him, and he's more than half considering it.

"What will you give me?"

She smiles, leans forward, looks to be in danger of tipping. "Anything," she says. "Or nothing."

He's not sure that's enough either, but it's more than what he has now.

*

10\. Shambala, Three Dog Night

He didn't tell his queen about the madman. It wasn't that he didn't think the man was dangerous; he was, indisputably. It wasn't that he thought that she wouldn't be interested; she would be fascinated. After all, she collected the unusual. It wasn't even that he didn't know how to word the encounter so that he didn't come off the worst, even though that was what had happened. No; it was because this was something he wanted for himself, didn't want to have snatched from him by greedy hands. There was no predicting what would happen next; and there was something unsettlingly pleasing about that.


End file.
